


and i won't be denied by you

by aceofdiamonds



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 14:39:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ian is finally getting somewhere with mickey, he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i won't be denied by you

**Author's Note:**

> i watched all three seasons of this in a week and i've been wanting to try writing mickey and ian and they're hard so i apologise for how out of character this probably is. it started off as a 5+1 fic and ended up as less than that. i might come back and add to it someday, but i wanted to finally post it, and so. i don't own these characters. title comes from animal by neon trees. 
> 
> season three au i guess.

 

_progress:_

_verb // prəˈgrɛs/_

_move forward or onward in space or time._

_synonyms:  go, make one's way, move, move forward, go forward, proceed, continue, advance, go on, make progress, make headway, press on_

 

He needs to get into West Point, needs it like breathing. He feels this is what he was meant to do in life: give orders take orders. This is his purpose.

He needs an A in Geometry for this dream to get within touching distance and he's not so hot at Geometry, too many shapes mixed with numbers for him to be entirely comfortable, so Lip’s tutoring him from college via texts, phone calls and the occasional email.  

It might be easier, learning what triangle means what, if he didn't have a crying toddler on his hip and dinner for six in the oven. Fiona's at work, Lip's at college, Debbie and Carl are out somewhere with Little Hank -- which, Ian doesn't want to know any more about, and Ian couldn't say no to a harried looking Fiona when she'd asked him to look after Liam, not when she's been working so hard at this job, one she actually seems to enjoy -- selling cups, who knew? -- and so here he is.

There's a knock at the door just as Ian's underlining his answer to problem number two. "Who's this?" he asks Liam, eyes wide in puzzlement even though he knows exactly who it is. He pulls the door open, still babbling to a hiccupping Liam. "It's... Mickey!"

Mickey frowns when he sees the kid on Ian's hip, stepping away from the door. "Thought you said you were in alone, Gallagher."

"Almost," Ian replies, reaching out and pulling Mickey in, Mickey stumbling through his confusion. "Here, watch Liam for me, will you?" And without waiting for an answer he passes Liam over to Mickey who catches him at the last second.

"What the fuck --" The quick handover has shocked Liam into silence, his fingers prodding at this new face, the new face with a purple eye and drawings on his fingers.

"Just until I finish this worksheet. I've got a test tomorrow and I promised Lip I would do all these as revision." He sketches out the next triangle, looking up to see Mickey shift Liam onto his other hip, his face still twisted in confusion. He grins back down at his paper.

"This isn't on, Gallagher," Mickey mumbles, sinking into a seat. Liam waves his dinosaur in his face, undeterred when he's shoved away impatiently. "I was promised a fuck and an empty house."

"And you'll get half of that in a while if you help me out here. He likes that plasticine over there; make him something out of that. You're good with your hands, aren’t you," he adds, smirking when the tips of Mickey's ears flush pink, the frown deepening in forced contrast.

"Ay, just hurry up and do your sums, Gallagher. I ain't being your fucking babysitter all day."

There's something domestic about the scene in the kitchen -- Ian bent over the counter, stirring the pasta every few minutes as he chews on his pen and slowly plods through his work, getting somewhat plausible answers each time; Mickey at the table with Liam on his lap, an army of blodges in front of them -- "they're fucking dinosaurs, look" "dino! dino!" -- and later, when the rest of them pour in, Mickey somehow stays sitting at the table, surrounded by the noise and the talking and a calm Liam on the seat beside him. He eats nervously, eyes darting everywhere like someone's going to swing at him any second but it's a start, Ian thinks, when he collapses onto the chair beside him. He slides a hand under the table, for appearance sake he's picking up his fork, but his hand grasps at Mickey's for a second, a thanks and a sorry mixed into one.

\--

"Carl burnt his eyebrows off again." Ian crashes into the shop ten minutes late. His sleeve gets caught on the door and he sticks his finger up at the snigger coming from the next aisle over.

Linda raises her eyebrows and Ian braces himself for the oncoming blast but, like every time he fucks up, it never comes. “Stay behind an extra ten minutes or I’m docking you an hour of pay,” is all she says before she stalks out the door, a kid at her heels. There’s something impressive about her.

“She’s fucked up,” Mickey says, appearing from behind the chips aisle, pushing Ian into the counter just because. “Has a video of you fucking her husband and still pays you... that’s not right.”

Ian shrugs. “I don’t care. S’long as I’m getting paid.”

“Your brother’s a psychopath,” Mickey says after a while.

“I know.” Ian rings up the woman from around the corner’s shopping, blinking at the look of disgust that passes over her face when Mickey hovers near. He thrusts her change at her and doesn’t tell her to have a nice day; the vindictive acts of revenge that come from working with the public. Mickey looks nonplussed. “We’ve got bets going on what age he’ll get arrested.”

“We did that with my dad.” It’s said quietly, like it wasn’t meant to make it past his lips, and moments like these are so rare, moments where Ian learns something more from him. He treats it like it’s nothing special, hoping that’s enough to keep him going.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Iggy won most times. He was probably in on it.” Mickey’s eyes are trained on the magazine on the counter but his leg is thumping against the candy section, a lolly rolling off the shelf where it lies ignored. “I won five dollars. Wasn’t even fucking worth it.”

“There’s always next time,” Ian offers, because Terry on parole never lasts more than a few months. Mickey snorts, glancing up at Ian, and it’s okay, they’ve both survived.

It’s quiet for a moment and Ian half expects Mickey to add on something more about his childhood, something about his mom or something better about his dad, if such a thing exists.

“Comin’ to the back?”

Ian rolls his eyes but leads the way.

\---

Lip’s home for the summer so they’re stretched out on Ian's bed in the boys’ room passing a joint between them, catching up with everything that hasn’t made it into a text or call.

“Have you spoken to Mandy?” Ian asks when he feels he’s allowed to. He doesn’t think he is, the way Lip’s top lip curls, but he doesn’t take it back. She’s his best friend, see, and this is his brother so he deserves to know what’s going on. “I’m a hypocrite.”

“Probably,” Lip agrees, taking a hit and dodging the question. “Why?”

Ian waves a hand through the air. “You ‘nd Mandy. Me ‘nd Mickey. Brothers, you know? The same thing.”

Lip laughs, a short burst. “Slow down, dude. Let me catch up.”

“Stop avoiding the thing, man.” It makes sense to talk about it now. Probably. Lip and Mandy are the only ones who know and things are getting somewhere with Mickey, maybe, so, Ian wants to discuss it.

“Karen’s called a few times.”

“Uh-huh. Still crazy?"

"Mandy hit her with her fucking car, Ian. She's not the crazy one." Lip blows a smoke ring into Ian's face. He's always been better at them.

"I like Mandy better." He likes this honesty thing.

Lip doesn't. He sits up, his face facing the window when he says, "Maybe only one of us can handle a Milkovich."

"I'm handling two," Ian laughs, nudging at Lip's hip with his foot.

He can tell Lip's rolling his eyes, always so sceptic of whatever Ian's got with Mickey, even though he thinks it might be edging towards something different, more real, if Mickey would only stop thinking about everyone else.

"You're only fucking one,” Lip says. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“They’re not that bad, man,” Ian offers through a hit. He tips his head back against the pillows, letting the smoke curl from his lips. “They’re just -”

“The same as us?” Lip snorts. “You’re gonna have to be smarter than that to get into West Point.”

There’s a crash downstairs while Ian processes the information, formulating a response through the fog in his head.

“Ian! Lip! Get down here!” Fiona’s voice is high in a panic but there’s a trace of anger behind it. Ian does some maths and comes up with Frank.

But when they reach the bottom of the stairs it’s Mickey in the middle of the kitchen, Mandy beside him, and Fiona holding Carl and Debbie back.

Ian steps closer to see, his chest tight with a twisted relief that at least Mickey’s standing, at least he’s alive. He doesn't look much more than that: his left eye is swollen shut, his mouth bloody up to his cheek. His shirt is dark with blood and he's favouring one side. When Ian takes another step Mickey sways and goes down with a whispered shout, Mandy and Ian surging forward to catch him. Fiona sends Carl to get V, Carl edging past the scene like it’ll blow up in his face.

“Jesus, what the hell happened?” Ian pushes Mickey down onto a chair, his hand staying on his shoulder. Mickey doesn’t tell him to move it. Later, it’ll be a mark of something, something big. Right now, Ian doesn’t notice.

Mickey can only shake his head. Mandy looks close to tears. Ian’s only seen her cry once before -- the day he pushed her off of him and she sent Mickey on him. It's different now.

“My dad --” Mandy starts, stopping again too quickly.

“Terry did this?” Fiona cuts in. Her eyes keep flicking from Mickey to Ian and back again, her mouth a hard line. She’s never been stupid, Fiona. “What does anyone do to deserve this?”

It all comes together then -- the difference in Mickey; the trace of fear in the curl of his split lip, the way his eyes are darting anywhere and everywhere apart from Ian, the tear-filled Mandy. The Mandy who had refused to speak to them both for a month when she found them together.

"Does he know? Mickey, does he know?"

Mandy turns away.

"Know what?" Fiona asks, leaning forward. "Ian, you've gotta help me out here."

Ian can't swallow. His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth, sitting next to his teeth like it doesn't belong. He feels startlingly clear-headed compared to ten minutes ago.

V comes in then, Carl lugging a bag over his shoulder. "I was in a middle of a video," she starts, waving her arms to get everyone out of the way. Ian's hand stays on Mickey's shoulder -- no one pushes it. "And what the fuck happened to you?"

"What d'you think fucking happened?" Mickey replies, his one eye glaring.

V steps back with her hands up in surrender. "Hey I'm just tryna to help. Take off your shirt."

There's a gash in Mickey's side, bruises already colouring the surrounding area. He hisses when V presses a cloth soaked in alcohol to it, wiping away most of the blood. It doesn’t look so bad underneath, Ian thinks, but Mickey’s shoulder is tense under his touch, his breathing hard. He gets patched up slowly, carefully, by someone who has seen this all so many times before.

“You’ve got a bruised rib under all this,” V says, glancing up at Ian when she says it. “I can bandage it up but you can't move much for a few days."  

Mickey bites his lip, his eyes flitting over Ian's face and back down again. He's never going to ask outright, Ian knows, would rather sleep under the El  than ask, but --

"He can sleep in Carl's bed," Fiona says. "Carl can sleep in the van, it's warm out." Her tone bodes no arguments, not that anyone wants to. Ian sends her a thankful smile; he gets one with a wobble in return. He can hear Lip and Mandy talking quietly behind him, wonders what they're saying. Mickey's shoulder isn't as tight as before. There's blood in his hair; Ian holds back from touching. He doesn't know what's happening exactly but there lines are always there.

"Well that's the best I can do," V says after so long. “Take a shit load of Tylenol and don’t piss anyone off again.”

“Great fucking nurse you are,” Mickey replies. He rolls his eyes when Ian nudges his shin. “Thanks.”

"My pleasure," V smirks, turning to Fiona on her way out. "Someone has to look out for those kids, look at the state of them."

"We can hear you," Mandy snaps. V waves over her shoulder as she leaves, the door banging shut behind her.

“We were talking,” Mandy says suddenly and all in a rush. “I was asking Mickey about you, about the two of you. He must have been hiding behind the fucking door.” She breaks off, looks away. But Ian doesn’t blame her, can’t blame her. Anyway, maybe she’s done something good for them in the long run. With Terry locked up again who’s really stopping them apart from Mickey himself. "He came running in and -- I've never seen him like that."

“Sweet Jesus,” Fiona says to the ceiling.

“He’s gone,” Mandy says. “I called the cops from the house across the street, told them he had a gun on him.” She smiles a bit at this. This thing here has just saved them all from Terry for a good few months, she deserves to smile for that.

“Great, another round in a few months,” Mickey snarls, pulling at the bandage across his arm.

Ian rolls his eyes. “Come on, I’ll take you upstairs.”

He waves off offers of help to get Mickey up the stairs, insists he can handle it as he wraps an arm round Mickey's waist and slings Mickey's over his shoulder. He looks away from the awe in Carl's face, the question in Fiona's, the mixed acceptance and denial in Lip's.

“Mandy called the cops,” Mickey mumbles into the crook of his arm once he's lying in Carl's bed. “Fucking psycho. But I won, Gallagher.”

“Won what?” Ian gets too brave and reaches to push the sticky bit of hair away from the cut under his eye. Mickey turns his face, pulls away, but not too much. It’s an inch Ian latches onto.

“I said a month.”

“You want in on the Carl pool? The stakes are getting high.”

“Hey, Gallagher. Ian.” Mickey reaches up to grab Ian’s wrist. “Ian, thanks.”

Ian slides his hand into Mickey's, squeezing. He watches their fingers, the ink on Mickey’s seems smudged with dirt. Glancing up, he sees Mickey looking as well through half-shut eyes.

"You would've done the same for me, right?"

\---

"Dear Mr Gallagher, We are pleased to offer you a place within our academy --" Ian trails off, his mouth silently finishing the letter he's waited so long for.

"You get in?" Mickey asks from the other side of the roof. He's sucking on his cigarette like it's his lifeline, his cheeks hollowed.

"Yeah," Ian nods. "I got in."

"All the studying paid off then? Gonna be a big shot officer making all the plans to get the others blown up."

It hits Ian then. Hits him like a freight train. After everything: the press ups and the Geometry and the English and the volunteering, he's finally here. He's fucking in.

"Come with me?" he says, because it's the only thing that makes sense.

He watches Mickey freeze. Watches the cogs turning once, twice, landing on the answer he had from the beginning. "What would I do in New York? I ain't sitting around waiting for you all day like some pussy."

"Work. Construction. Anything." He lets himself think, just for a moment, about a place where he and Mickey don't have to hide. Where they can have their tiny apartment with their clothes jumbled together in their drawers, the sheets smelling of the two of them. Where they can walk and talk and maybe even hold hands outside the confines of the storeroom at Kash's or the shelter of the dugout. He smiles, catches Mickey's lips twitching like he's going to do the same.

"Well done," Mickey says later, his mouth wet on Ian's neck where his head has fallen. They had had some beers earlier to celebrate and then Ian had been given some more at home and then they had snuck out a bottle of vodka to celebrate some more.

The praise settles deep in Ian's stomach, warming him. "Thanks, Mick."

"I always knew you were gonna get in," he mumbles, quiet, secret.

They're on the brink of something here, something quietly huge. Ian holds his breath and doesn’t wish on the shooting star.  


End file.
